Jealousy
by MuddyWolf
Summary: A somewhat Lust x Pride. As in Fuhrer Bradley, NOT Ed.


Legal Stuff: FMA characters belong to Hiromu Arakawa. This fic is a response to the glut of Ed!Pride fics out there. It would be nice if those certain Ed!Pride fics were clearly marked so a desperate fan does not get its hopes up to see a fic about the Fuhrer and sees instead, you guessed it! ANOTHER Ed!Pride… 

As usual, about 1/64 of this is canon. : ()

5/22/06

Jealousy

By Blue9Tiger

The eyeball rolled unceasingly behind the piece of black fabric. The lid opened and shut with restless persistence. The jelly-like organ scraped against the material each time it opened, causing indescribable and undemonstrated discomfort. This curse of his creation was no doubt doubly a blessing: this organ had slain countless foes and protected the state secret for as long as he could remember. It was—apart from the defining red patterns on his shoulders and back, his inhuman agility and longevity, and the other eye, cold, dead, and slitted---well, maybe he didn't look human at all. He just appeared to age like one. The wrinkles carved deep into his skin, a gray hair here or there. But the symbol on his eye was the mark that reminded him he belonged to them and not _them. _

In some ways he resembled the others, and more than the rest. He didn't have that unhealthy pallor---Gluttony didn't either, but he always ate ten times his size. He had mastered the art of the warm smile, playing the father figure---easygoing, charismatic, jolly. Like the oldest Homunculus, he had to be an excellent actor by necessity. His position demanded a flawless, impenetrable façade; and even then, he could feel it: the boy's suspicious gaze on the back of his neck. Had he erred somewhere? Did his friendly demeanor give way to one of knowing smugness, and that split-second of inattention cost the secrecy of the plan?

_The slightest twitch of the mouth must be weighed and measured. Human beings say the most with their bodies. _

Outside the moon waited behind the thick curtain of clouds. He fixed the right green eye at some dusty point on the horizon, staring out the window of his office---

His? In the most loose of definitions, it was his. He occupied it. More importantly, he _gave the impression_ that it was his. So was the exquisite house in Central. So was his wife and child.

That Person had provided him with all of this power, wealth, and prestige. He hadn't been but a few days created when their master gave him the world.

_You gave me life. That's more than enough._

_I have no intention of becoming Fuhrer of this country._

_I want to do something big---I want to direct pictures. _

_I don't think you quite understand, Pride. This is not about what you want. _

_You should be thrilled that I am giving you all this: the other Homunculi own nothing: you hold the world in the palm of your hand._

_While I hold it, of course. _

_You are my pride and joy. I do everything to make you happy. I feed you, clothe you, AND I give you this country as a toy. How can you be so ungrateful? Maybe I should take away your ouroboros: THEN you would not even have a mind with which to question my orders. Oh---but perhaps that is too harsh a measure. I need to have a convincing puppet in the seat of power, after all._

It was then he learned his purpose. What more were his fine clothes than borrowed? His absolute power, a thing that he put in his hands to hold for a while. But he never fooled himself that it was That Person's plaything. The master entrusts his grounds to his slave, but the grounds don't belong to the slave. But HIS master was always there, watching his every move.

Why had she forced him to live amongst the humans he both loathed and envied, to daily, hourly, minutely be what he was not? Perhaps fooled into thinking that he somehow had it better than the others, because he had mere trappings of power?

He knew, despite the way that That Person fawned over and petted him, especially in the presence of Envy, he was disposable. Even as he kept up this wretched farce, he knew That Person was already planning a whole new generation of Homunculi. What was he but his favorite for a few hundred years?

This was the bitter, weary mood that Pride was in when Lust and Gluttony appeared in the room. The Fuhrer continued to stare out the window, his posture rigid, his arms crossed behind his back.The younger Homunculus fixed an angry stare at the elder, rapidly losing the cruelty that usually accompanied it. A moan crawled out of Gluttony's stomach. His drool rolled down his fat chin and hit the floor. Lust got straight to the point. She was impatient, brash—must have come with still being young, still dreaming of humanity—hah!

That was a long time ago.

Why did he persist?

Maybe he still had that child's dream. Maybe he feared the wrath of God. Maybe he just wanted to live.

Whatever the reason might be, he would follow their master without question.

The woman confirmed his suspicions. She wanted to defy That Person's direct orders. To help Scar create the Stone. Something acid spilled out of his mouth. A school-girl infatuation. Lust's was one of persistent defiance and Pride's of cold irritation: neither were readable.

But beneath the gaze there was a twinge of -----..

The word escaped him. What you lack a name for, you don't know.

The words meant to be poison were bitter in his own mouth and harmless to her ears. She didn't even understand why he had said it: probably to be—what do the humans call it? Right….an "ass".

_How dare he…just because Pride's so cozy with That Person doesn't mean he can stop me from getting what I want. I don't care if That Person ordered to delay the attack. Scar's the one who is closest to making the Stone. _

_That's the only thing I want.._

_To be human._

They exchanged verbal blows. Gluttony might have smelled the tension.

_Maybe Pride owes That Person his life, but I don't._

She seethed under her calm exterior. She resisted the slight urge to stab the other Homunculus right in that precious eye of his. But she was as good an actor as him, calmly leaning against the wall.

_He's an old fool. This is not a life…none of us can live until we're human._

"I'm going to help him."

There was ice in her normally liquid voice. She and Gluttony left the room, he waddling, she storming. The clack of her heels against the floor rang with brash resolve. She felt something impalpable on her bared shoulders. A smirk broke her scowl. She could almost hear the old pig squealing to their "beloved" master about her heinous treason. Let him do what he wishes. She was on her way to Lior.

And in part, she was right. He fumed behind his glued-on mask.

_The impertinence.. of a mere Homunculus defying That Person…it's like rebelling against God Himself. _

For all he knew, Dante was God.

But surprising to him, indignation over Lust's insubordination submerged under a host of other murderous thoughts, all directed against the key to Lust's supposed salvation.

He was taken aback by his own ire—perhaps he should hate Scar because Lust may interfere with That Person's plan, but there was a deeper current, more wild, infused with ------.

The Fuhrer could not put this hatred into words, much less thoughts. Whatever it was, it stripped away layers his cold façade and he was revealed bare and furious. No one was around to see it but the turned-out lights, the window, and chairs, but that fact was inconsequential: it was that it had dropped so pitifully, like dead skin falling off a carcass, and clumped around his exposed innards---

Was he really that weak?

Could a sin be conquered by -----?

The Fuhrer turned away from the window, his height no longer impressive: his form was now hulking, shapeless, like he was long ago at his birth. He let his arms hang at his sides, he began to pace. His boot squeaked on the floor. He became much younger than he looked and acted….Acted was always the word. What does anyone do when encountering the unknown for the first time? Something greater than yourself?

-------.

Though he was one of them, he was almost one of _them._

------ raged in the empty cavern that housed a soul in real beings. What was a soul but the capacity to feel---to laugh, to fume, to weep helplessly, to do everything an articial being should not be able do.

He could not name this thing but he felt it. He hated Scar. Scar was on Lust's lips and though she may or may not have had any interest in him except to further her own needs, he hated him.

Scar would make her complete.

No need to seek another incomplete being.

After all, he was only pieces of a person. And for as long as he could remember he accepted that and only had a vague longing to be human, until he had realized it was impossible: after that, he accepted his incompleteness because it was as good as the real thing and even better than it----he was more durable than a human and ten times stronger because he could not and did not FEEL…

------.

Was feeling ----- being human? Why would anyone want to ever be human if they were nothing but simpering puddles of flesh? Sick with the disease of emotion?

And yet more than ever, as he stood in the ray of the moon through the window, his shield broken, his cold face wrought with fury at his own weakness, he wanted to be human.

Because pieces don't search for their like.

And Scar, though he lived like a wild animal, filthy, ragged, and hunted, was a whole. And he, the Fuhrer of Amestris, was a piece, a shard of broken glass from the human mirror.

The End


End file.
